Stop All The Clocks
by iworkwithpens
Summary: All the money in the world couldn't buy them the one thing they needed now. Time. Future Will/Mac fic.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes: I swear I did not write this story as some sort of warped, twisted revenge against Will for dating Nina Howard. I don't like it, and I don't like her, but I don't write maudlin tragedy to punish fictional characters. This story actually started out as a fluffy piece about Will's memories of his old and new relationships with Mackenzie and somehow veered off into catastrophe. If that's not your thing…read no further. If you like heartbreak…come on in. Thanks for reading. **

_The Things He'd Forgotten_. He thinks that maybe he should make a list, because he's shocked at how many there are.

He'd forgotten that she reads so quickly that she is telling him about every story in _The New York Times_ before he can even flip to page two and fold the paper into the small rectangle he likes to grip in one hand as he is sipping his coffee.

He'd forgotten that she has the thinnest, finest hair of any woman he's ever known, but nobody else knows that about her because she spends more than an hour every morning curling, and blow-drying, and fluffing, and doing God-knows what else to it. Until it shines and shimmers and flows over her shoulders in a river of chestnut that he loves to bury his hands or his head in. He'd forgotten just how many devices and products could cover his bathroom counter.

He'd forgotten that she snores slightly and grinds her teeth relentlessly. He'd forgotten that he needs to leave the tv on for the first half hour or so after she falls asleep, so that he can't hear that awful grating sound her teeth make, and so he doesn't have to sit there and wonder when she'll need another root canal.

He'd forgotten that she needs almond milk, because she's lactose intolerant, and so they always have every variety of dairy and non dairy creamers in their refrigerator. It's a fucking grocery store line-up of every product available to add to your coffee. His milk and cream, her soy or rice or almond milk, and then there's her teabags and his coffees and well, you can imagine what their kitchen looks like.

He'd forgotten that she was always cold, and he was always hot, and so they had to have a mattress pad cover that had different climate control settings for either side of the bed. But the heat still radiated off her side, and it drove him insane, and it made his right arm feel like it was on fire. Because his right arm was always slung over her and somehow, by morning, she would be all the way on his side of the bed and what the fuck was the point of dual control heat settings if she never stayed on her side of the bed?!

He'd forgotten that she loved eggs, but hated the smell of them cooking, and so he had to do it while she was still asleep. He'd sneak out from under her almost suffocating form and tip toe toward the kitchen. If he was really lucky, she'd sleep right through breakfast preparations, and then he could surprise her with an omelet she'd actually eat because the smell of cooking eggs hadn't made her nauseous.

He'd forgotten that people didn't think he was gruff before Mackenzie left. They didn't think he was particularly warm and fuzzy, but they didn't think he was an asshole. Terms like asshole, smug, superior, know-it-all fucker…those didn't come into play until she left. At first, he didn't care. Mackenzie was gone, and he was alone, and who the fuck cared if Rush Limbaugh thought he was smug?! Actually, come to think of it, Rush Limbaugh calling him smug was probably a compliment.

"What are you doing?" her sleepy voice asked, as she trudged out of the bedroom in her robe and mussed up bedhead.

"Couldn't sleep. You were snoring" he told her, smiling slightly to himself.

"I was not. I do not snore" she whined, stomping her foot for good measure. He laughed. Add that to the list of things he'd forgotten. Mackenzie stomped her foot when she felt insulted.

"Ok, fine, you don't snore. But then something in our bedroom is making an odd, nasal sound when I'm trying to sleep. We really should look into that."

"Smug bastard" she whispered, detouring to the kitchen and grabbing a bottle of water. "Really, what are you doing Will?" she asked, coming over to the sofa and curling up next to him, trying to read over his shoulder.

"Nothing. Just making a list of things" he replied, flipping the notebook over so she couldn't read what he'd been writing.

"It's not Bigfoot, right? Because I know Neal's been talking to you a lot, and the kid just can't take no for an answer, and someday that's going to make him a great journalist, but right now it's just fucking annoying" she whines.

Another thing for the list. Mackenzie whines when she's tired.

"Go back to bed Mac. We have to be at the airport in four hours, but you can still sleep some" he pleads. He needs to make this list, he's made so many others already, but this one seems the most important. There are already lists of doctors, and lawyers, and emergency contacts, and he still finds it odd that he can remember things he learned in law school but not the name of the specialist they're going to see tomorrow. Tomorrow, right?

"Come with me" she begs, trying to pull him up by the hand, and he almost yanks it away from her but he sees the look in her eyes and so he doesn't. She's terrified, but she does her best to hide it. The grinding of her teeth gives her away every time though. The dentist wants to make her a nightguard to shield her teeth from some of the force, but she refuses to spend the time away from him. Because, sometimes when she's gone for a few hours, she can see his confusion when she returns, and it scares the shit out of her, he knows.

And yet, every doctor they've seen tells her the same thing…don't become his world, because soon you will be the only person he'll recognize and the only person he will feel comfortable with. And while it seems like a warning, she holds onto it like a lifeline. 'If he can only remember one thing, let it be me.'

Little does she know, he has the same thought. Who the fuck cares about multiplication tables or the New York State Penal Code, or the history of the Gibson guitar?! He will happily sacrifice all of those memories if he can keep everything he knows about Mackenzie intact.

"You want to know _my_ list?" she asks quietly. He nods his head, and then curls against her side and rests against her shoulder. She takes that as her cue to run her fingers through his hair and begin sharing her memories.

"You never use a knife, you always stick your finger in the peanut butter jar. When I can't sleep, you sing Van Morrison to me until dawn. You taste like scotch, and coffee, and cigarettes, and it's my favorite flavor in the world. My favorite color is the blue of your eyes and my most treasured possession is my wedding ring. I'll keep telling you these things over and over so you can't possibly forget" she assures him, and he hopes it's true. Because if he loses his memories of her, who will he be?

"Where are we going?" he asks, because he knows he should know this. They'd packed the bags that are sitting in the corner of the room just yesterday, and he knows he should remember, but he doesn't. They're getting on a plane in four hours, he remembers that, but where are they going? And why?

"The Mayo Clinic, Will. Minnesota. We're going to see another doctor" she says wearily. He knows she's not upset with him, but rather terrified of how quickly she is losing him. He's not even sixty yet and he can barely remember his own address. He can remember her dress size, and her birthdate, and her social security number though. He can remember the first time they met, and the first time they made love, and the moment they were married. He likes to think he is being granted some small mercy. That in the tragedy that is their life these days, there is one wish that he's being granted, to never forget _her_.

But, just in case, he will keep making these lists until he forgets how to write. And then he will have her read them to him over and over.

**More Notes: Uh, yeah…we're headed towards character death here folks. Didn't want to come right out and say that at the beginning, because it would have made it too obvious where Will's list was headed. So, if you want to read no further, I understand. If, however, you have decided to stick it out with me, there are a few more chapters. Thanks for your patience and understanding.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes: Many thanks for the lovely reviews…and also for not wanting to kill me for this one.**

_Life is, at best, bittersweet.  
~Jack Kirby, comic book writer and artist_

He still liked to watch baseball, though he didn't quite keep track of the score anymore, not the way he used to. Rattling off statistics and shouting his disagreement with the umpire's calls at the television screen. Now it was more of a slow, silent study of something he thought he should know, but couldn't quite put his finger on. Every once in a while, he would look up at her and ask a question about the game, and if it weren't tragic, it would be funny. Will McAvoy was asking _her_ something about baseball.

It should have made her laugh, but it just made her cry. Jim was there that day though, so she was able to quietly excuse herself from the room, without worrying that her husband might wander off on his own in the interim. She spent twenty minutes in the bathroom crying and then she wiped her tears, and washed her face, and tried to quickly re-apply some makeup. Even though he sometimes forgot the word for 'make-up' he still somehow managed to know something was not quite right with her. He'd look at her puffy eyes and pale face and tilt his head to the side and say "what's wrong Kenz?" Even on his worst days, he still managed the word Kenz. Sometimes it was the only word he pushed past his lips.

"You okay?" Jim asked when she returned.

"Yup" she smiled brightly, for Will, who was now looking at her with interest.

"I'm fine, Billy. I'm fine" she reassured, and only then did he go back to staring at the television screen.

Everyone had been wonderful the past couple of years. Jim, Maggie, Sloan, Don, Charlie…they'd all come over and offer to give her a break, but what they didn't understand was that she couldn't bear to be apart from him any more than he could bear to be apart from her. His panic was more noticeable and unmanageable than hers, though. He would pace the apartment, and lose more and more words, the longer she was gone. By the time she returned, a scant 'Mac?' was all that he could manage. Over and over again, like a baby bird, he would chant the short burst of sound until it all but drove his baby-sitter (whoever that may be) insane. They would finally relent, calling her cell phone, and begging her to return.

Today, it had been Jim. "Go out with Sloan, Mac. Take a break. Get some lunch, a glass of wine. We'll be fine. There's a game on" he reassured her. You see, that was the mistake they all made…thinking that her stress and worry could somehow be relieved by _not_ being with Will. But it only made it worse. She found herself counting the minutes until her return would be considered acceptable. Until she could go home, and push whatever well meaning friend or relative was there that day out the front door, and she could pull him into her arms, and once again know for certain that he was safe.

"I'm sorry I had to call, but he was climbing the walls" Jim had apologized when she'd walked through the door.

"No, no…it's fine" she told him, and Will rushed over and grabbed her up in his arms and practically pulled her to the sofa with him. He would curl against her side, and lean his head on her shoulder, and begin to calm almost immediately. Their friends called it 'the Mackenzie effect.'

She could tell it made Jim nervous though. He would stay until Will seemed a little less clingy and wound up.

"What if he hurts you Mac?" he asked that day, as Will continued to stare at the baseball game on the television.

"He never would Jim. _Never_."

"You don't know that. He's not Will anymore. You don't know…"

"Don't you fucking say that! He is still in there Jim! That is still my husband you're talking about!" she shouted.

"I'm sorry. I just worry Mac. We all worry" he pleaded.

"Then stop coming. If you can't handle it, don't come." She turned and left the room, leading Will into the bedroom, and hoping Jim would be gone by the time they exited.

Will simply watched her. "Kenz?" he asked, because he didn't have many more words than that these days.

"It's fine Will. We're fine. Jim just won't be coming over anymore. That's all." And she closed the book on another friendship. She didn't find it that hard to do anymore. It was amazingly simple how tragedy whittled down the complicated, interwoven vines of one's friends and family. She felt like a vicious gardener, slicing back the overgrowth with a machete. Some days it felt liberating…others it felt terrifying. Today, it just felt like a hollow victory. She still had Will, but how much longer would she be able to claim that small triumph?

"Love you" he stuttered, sitting next to her on the bed and wiping her tears.

"I love you too" she replied, kissing him briefly on the lips. He rolled onto his side and pulled her against him and whispered 'Kenz' over and over again.

She remembered several months back when she had found it annoying. She would be in the kitchen, or trying to read email on her laptop, and he would be wandering around the apartment bellowing out her name like Marlon Brando yelling out 'Stella!' in _A Streetcar Named Desire,_ until she wanted to hit him with a stun gun.

"Mackenzie? Mac? Kenz? Kenzie?" he would chant as he wandered the rooms.

"What Will?!" she would finally shout.

"Nothing. I just didn't know where you were." But that wasn't it at all. He was losing words by the day and he had been terrified that her name would be next. She didn't realize it until she found him writing her name down over and over again in every variation possible.

_Mackenzie McHale  
Mackenzie Morgan McHale  
Mackenzie McAvoy  
Mackenzie Morgan McAvoy  
Mackenzie Morgan McHale McAvoy  
Mackenzie, Mac, Kenzie, Kenz_

"Will, stop" she had pleaded, forcing him to release his grip on the pencil and pulling it from his hand.

"I don't want to forget Kenz. I don't _ever_ want to forget" he looked up at her with lost and lonely eyes.

"Ok, what else don't you want to forget Billy?" she had asked, setting the papers aside and pulling his hands into hers.

"You. You and me…what we're like together" he pleaded. And so she helped him make video after video of his memories of them.

"What if someday I don't remember any of _us_ and I don't believe what you try to tell me?" he asked in a panic.

"Ok, Billy. Talk" she said, pointing her iPhone at him. He'd talked for hours that day. She'd almost become tired of the sound of his voice. Almost. She hadn't realized it would be the last day that he would speak that much ever again. For a man who made his living with words, it was somewhat ironic that the power of speech was the first thing to go for him.

"Cerebellar ataxia" the doctor had said, and at first, she was relieved. It wasn't Alzheimer's Disease, as they had been repeatedly told. In the end, it didn't matter. Its progress was just as evil and deadly and stealthy…stealing her husband in the night. Every morning she woke to a new symptom, a new progression, and a little less Will. It was terrifying for her…she couldn't imagine what it was like for him.

The lists became his lifeline. He would spend hours pouring over them. Writing and examining them as if they held the key to his sanity. _The Bill of Rights, The Declaration of Independence, Miranda Rights_…these were the first lists to appear. Higher thought and intellect would be the things he lost initially, and so he had focused on the academic minutiae of his life. The next lists came during a brief period of respite for them. They had gone to Arizona, to watch Spring Training, and he was so happy. _Why I Root for The Mets. Why I am a Republican…and a New York Jets Fan_. She'd giggled at those.

For a while, he would still have simpler cognition, and feelings, and the ability to recognize people. It was when the lists took a turn for the personal, the sexual, the fundamental being that he was, that she began to fear what the future held.

_Why I Love Mackenzie. The Best Gifts I Ever Gave Her. The Best Gifts She Ever Gave Me. Our Favorite Sexual Positions _(she had laughed at that one, and then cried, because she knew that would be the first part of their relationship to go as his illness progressed). _What Our Children's Names Would Have Been_ (and that one had been her undoing, for nearly an entire afternoon, as she wept in his arms).

Today, as she'd cursed Jim and turned her back on him, she realized that it wasn't just your love you lost to an illness like this…it was your life and your soul. She knew she would never be the same person again.

"Kenz?" he whispered fearfully, looking to her for answers to all the things he no longer understood in the world.

"It's ok Will. I'm not going anywhere. We'll be fine. I promise."

The sad part was that he believed her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Notes: The reviews and comments have been really amazing and encouraging. I knew I was taking a risk, writing about such a tragic topic, but you all have been wonderfully supportive. For those who have experience with these awful diseases, that come with names like dementia, Alzheimer's, and cerebellar ataxia…please know that I write from experience and do not, in any way, wish to diminish your suffering. If it seems like I am glossing over some of the more serious or gruesome aspects of these horrible illnesses, please understand that I do it to give my fictional characters (as well as our loved ones) some dignity. Many thanks… **

_What It's Like When It Happens_. He thinks that should be his next list, but the thought vanishes just as quickly as it appeared, and he feels himself sinking into the quicksand of forgetfulness. It is so easy to be pulled down into it. It's like trying to fight that fuzzy, drunken sensation that envelopes you as you consume more and more alcohol. He lets himself slip into the murky darkness.

"Will?" she says quietly, trying not to startle him. He hates the question in her voice, but knows it is only natural. Sometimes, even _he_ wonders how much of himself is left.

"Hmm?" he murmurs.

"Did you want me to write something for you?" He looks down at the pen in his hand. He had started to write something on the pad of paper before him, but it had quickly turned into a childish scribble, and then the ink had wandered off the page and onto the dining room table. Damn it.

"I don't know" he replies honestly, because he really doesn't.

"What were you thinking about?" she asks helpfully. Sometimes this backwards progression worked and sometimes it didn't. The 'sometimes it did' moments were getting fewer and farther between.

"Not sure. You?" he posits, because more likely than not, that had been the case. He finds so many memories slipping through his fingers, but the ones that involve Mackenzie still remain the clearest. If there is one blessing in this whole fucked up situation it is the almost merciful way his brain seems to pick and chose what is discarded. First to go was law school, and while it was sad that he no longer remembered Brown vs. Board of Education or who the hell was on the Supreme Court these days, it was ridiculously unimportant in the grander scheme of things.

Next to go was the news. He had absolutely no interest in it anymore, because he couldn't really follow what they were saying. Who was Marco Rubio and why should he care if he was running for President? No matter, watching the National Geographic channel is so much more soothing and comforting . There was a blessed quiet as the camera followed a snow leopard through the woods. No facts or statistics to remember in order for this to make sense, his eyes just had to track the graceful, lithe animal as it leapt through the landscape on screen.

Just when he was about to curse the cruel nature of his fucking disease, it gave him a gift, a reprieve. The next things to go were his memories of his father's abuse, followed by any last lingering doubts he'd had about Mackenzie's fidelity. In the course of just a few weeks, he found the images of a drunk, raging father and a lecherous Brian Brenner disappearing into the mist. His body wearily, but gratefully, accepts the loss.

"_What It's Like…_?" she asks leadingly, and he looks at her in confusion.

"That's what you were writing, Will. Do you remember the rest of the sentence?"

"Oh, right. No, but I'm sure it's not important. I'm going to watch television" he tells her, as he grabs up the pen and paper and heads for the sofa. There are some lists that he doesn't want her to see until he is ready…until _she_ is ready. He just hopes he remembers to give them to her when the time is right. As for the rest, he will have to trust Charlie, or Jim, or Sloan to take over for him. Charlie had helped him with a few lists, and even Maggie one day, but soon enough the young woman was in tears and he forced himself to remember never to ask for her help again. The lists are his. They are a tool for his addled mind, and a gift to his wife, and no one else needs to be shedding tears over them, not yet anyway. But this one has been the hardest. How to tell Mackenzie what happens to him in those moments, which are growing longer and closer together, where he seems to disappear inside himself…unable to return.

He has struggled for months now, how to tell Mackenzie what happens when he leaves her world, and drifts into his own. She wants to know if he is scared when it happens, or if it is simply a daydream he can't escape. If she should try to help him or leave him alone. She doesn't know what to do…she just wants guidance. The only guidance he can give her is that he _never_ wants her to leave him alone. He is always grateful for her presence. Always.

_It's like falling asleep sitting up in an airplane. You know you shouldn't, you know it's going to be uncomfortable, but your body insists that you do so…only to jerk you awake again a few moments later. I think my brain is taking longer and longer to jerk me back to awareness Kenz._

_It's like a monotonous commute to work every day. You know the route like the back of your hand and so sometimes, some days, you get to the office with absolutely no memory of the drive. My life has become that drive, Mackenzie. Sometimes, I roll over in bed and see you lying there with reading glasses and a book, and I have no idea if it's morning or evening. Have we just woken, or are we about to go to sleep? I look outside for a cue. Is it night? It is…and I have no memory of the day that preceded it._

_It's like a winter day inside a quiet, out of the way cabin. You barely notice the silent snowfall outside, but the build-up of a heavy blanket of the treacherous white stuff is so imperceptible, so insidious, that it takes you by surprise. You look out the window at four in the afternoon and wonder how you got snowed in? I feel like that blanket of snow is now wrapping around my brain, trapping me inside the cabin, while everyone else somehow got out. You're the only one who sticks around and waits for me Mac. I see you just outside the cabin, trying to coax me out. It's getting harder and harder to follow you, but you'll never know how much I appreciate your effort._

_It's a bit like falling in love. You don't remember what your life was like before. You don't even know if there was a life before this vague, muddled fuzziness set in. I hate to compare the two, because it does love an injustice, but it's apropos somehow. I thought I was losing my mind when I fell for you a second time. Now I really am. I'll miss you the most._

"Dinner" he hears her voice call out, and so he tucks this list into his pocket and hopes he remembers to pull it out and put it away before she finds it, or the jeans get washed and yet another memory of his goes swirling down the drain.

"You didn't cook, did you?" he teases. And it's one of the few moments of levity they have left. There's not a whole lot of laughter in their life anymore. He misses it. He's reminded of an old joke…of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most. It should be his new motto. But it's not true. Of all the things _he's_ lost, he misses her laughter the most.

"I ordered Chinese. Your sensitive stomach is safe" she tells him, smiling slightly, and he can see the new lines and wrinkles that have formed. He knows that he has caused them and he hates it. She pushes her reading glasses up her nose and looks at the newspaper spread out across the table.

"Kenz?" he asks quietly.

"Hmm?" she replies, still focusing on the newspaper in front of her.

"Do I like this?" he wonders, because suddenly the food she's put in front of him looks totally unfamiliar and unappealing.

"You do" she tells him firmly, and begins to explain the things on his plate to him.

"Ok" he says, quietly taking her hand and poking at an egg roll. If she tells him it's ok then it must be.

"Kenz?" he asks again, and sometimes he thinks he just likes to hear himself say it. "You can go, if you want to" and he knows the minute it's out of his mouth, it's wrong. Even if he doesn't always remember social niceties, or proper etiquette these days, he knows when he's hurt her. She is the only person he can still read.

"I'm going to forget you said that Will. I'm going to chalk it up to dementia, or fatigue, or maybe even the vernal equinox. If you get to wipe things from your memory, then I do too, Billy. And that sentence will be the first to go. Don't ever say it again." She gets up, taking both their plates with her, and leaves the room. He can hear the water running in the kitchen, and the harsh clatter of plates banging together, as she loads the dishwasher. He doesn't know whether to go to her or stay here.

"Kenz?" he whispers, around the corner.

"What Will?" she asks, exasperation leaking from her tone and her body language. She is so tired. Her shoulders slump, and her head rolls forward, and she leans on the sink as if it's the only thing holding her up.

"I just wanted you to know that I wouldn't blame you…for not staying" he says, standing behind her and bringing his hands up toward her shoulders, but stopping within millimeters of touching her. Every inch of her body radiates tension. There's a metaphorical neon sign over her head that says 'touch me and I will shatter into a million pieces.' He doesn't want to be the one that causes it, and so, he backs away.

"Billy? For better or for worse. In sickness and in health. I meant it. Don't ask me again, ok?" she pleads.

"Ok. Kenz? I meant it too" he replies, as he shuffles closer to her. When she doesn't seem to shrink away, he wraps his arms around her waist and settles his head against hers. "I just never knew how much worse it could get."

"Nothing with you is worse, Will. Nothing. I wouldn't be anywhere else" she reassures him, and goes back to the dinner dishes.

He retreats to the bedroom and begins another list. _All the Things I'm Sorry For._ Telling her she could leave is at the top of the list. He places this list, along with the one he'd stored in his pocket earlier, into one of two boxes. One is labeled _Before_ and the other is labeled _After_.

The _Before_ box contains all the things she might need to know while he is still alive. Things that will comfort her, as she sits next to a body that resembles her husband in form, but not in spirit. The _After_ box is filled with the things that she will need to know once he's gone. Not the legal minutiae of one's life, no that was already taken care of, and that shit was easy. Lawyers, and wills, and trusts were small potatoes compared to the harder, thornier issues she would face. The _After _box contains lists like _It's Okay to Move on Kenz_ and _Read This One on the Day of my Funeral_.

He likes to think he has thought of something for every occasion. Birthdays, anniversaries, when she is ready to go back to work. If he can't be with her in deed, then he will be there with her in word. He carefully shuts the lids on the boxes and places them back in the far corner of his closet.

"What are you doing?" she asks, coming into the room, no doubt to check on him. She doesn't like to let him out of her sight much these days. He doesn't mind though, he gets a little nervous at the thought of _being_ out of her sight these days.

"Just thinking about you" he answers, truthfully. _I was saving memories for you Kenz_, he thinks to himself. _You'll need them soon enough. We both will._


End file.
